


Boys of Summer (Part II)

by sanguisuga



Series: Boys of Summer [2]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: But They're Teens - 16/17, Except when he is, First Love, Flashbacks, Holmes Bro Feels, Light Angst, M/M, Mycroft is a Good Big Bro, Recovered Memories, Sherlock Isn't a Bad Little Bro, Summer Romance, Tagged Underage, Teen Romance, beach holiday, eventual Mystrade, good ones though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-12 21:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10499709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguisuga/pseuds/sanguisuga
Summary: A continuation on Mycroft's recollection of the last summer before Uni, and of the boy that captured his heart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaack! And thank Lucifer, too. 
> 
> As you can see, I've broken this one out into parts. The title is a working one for the moment - if anyone can think of something else, please let me know. I'm hopeless with them.
> 
> Please read, please comment, and don't forget the kudos! Kisses to you all!!!

The next couple of days followed a similar pattern. Mummy would send both of the brothers out to ‘play’ while she and Father would do - whatever. On past holidays, Mycroft had happily tagged along on his father’s excursions to the shops, as he had a distinct talent for rooting out those with the most unique wares. Only last summer, they had come across a gent with an extensive collection of World War II memorabilia, which included a rather impressive display of spy gadgets. 

Upon noting Mycroft’s utter fascination with the devices and after seeking approval from his father, the elderly man had directed his attention toward a shabby umbrella, showing him how to trip the catch that released the blade hidden within the shaft. Mycroft had been so taken with it that the proprietor had offered it to him for a minimal sum in consideration of the poor state of it. When Father had tried to offer more, the man had declined, saying that it should go to someone who could devote the time necessary to do a proper restoration and insisting that he had no time for such an extended project.

As these kinds of shops tended to send one down a rabbit hole of fascinating discoveries, it was far too easy to lose track of the patriarch of the family once he set out to wander. This summer, it seemed as though Mummy was willing to take over Father-minding duties, and for once, Mycroft didn’t detest being forced out into the great outdoors, even for the more arduous task of Sherlock-minding.

He couldn’t delude himself as to why, because of course he knew why all too well. Every day, within an hour of Mycroft and Sherlock settling in with their beach mat and large umbrella, Peter would come skipping merrily by. He would turn that devastating smile on Mycroft, passing some meaningless pleasantry before reaching out to sweep Sherlock up to cart him off to the water to play. 

And each time, Mycroft would find himself so distracted by the boy that he would end up simply watching from a distance, daydreaming of being bold enough to jump into the ocean with Peter. Said daydreams would quickly devolve into lurid fantasies, each more improbable than the one before, especially considering Mycroft’s utter lack of experience. Peter tended to take the lead in each imagined scenario, although on rare occasions, Mycroft would imagine the boy writhing underneath him, and his cheeks would burn so hot that he would be nearly overcome. 

A couple of days before they were meant to return home, Peter joined Sherlock for his afternoon snack. He apparently had very little choice in the matter, as he was dragged along behind the youngest Holmes, his tiny hand clutching hard to two of Peter’s fingers. Mycroft smiled tremulously as he passed out the sandwiches and fruit, stealing small glances as the boy idly sucked on an orange slice. Every time he gave into the impulse to look, Peter would have his eyes fixed on his face as if memorising his features, and Mycroft would feel the heat in his face flare ever higher. 

Sherlock seemed to be blessedly unaware of the odd tension building between the two boys, his small body practically vibrating with the urge to run off and resume playing. But of course Mycroft had received very specific instructions from their mother, and he knew better than to relax in his vigilance.

“Alright, Sherlock. It’s been a half-hour, you can go back out to play.” Sherlock let out a whoop and immediately ran off back toward the ocean, not even checking to see if Peter was following. Mycroft reached out to tap the boy’s arm as he stood, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I have enough now. F-for the toy.”

Peter’s face lit up as he glanced back, rubbing his hands gleefully. “Go on, then. I’ll keep an eye on your stuff for you.” 

Blushing faintly as his hat was placed in his hands, Mycroft put it on and headed for the toy shop. He found the proprietor to be just as unpleasant an individual as Peter had described, although since Mycroft knew exactly what he wanted and didn’t ‘fiddle-faddle about the place smearing his sticky fingers all over’, old man Johnson was at least marginally polite to him.

Swinging his plastic sack, Mycroft wandered back down the pier, pausing at one of the many sweets shops along the way to relieve himself of the burden of his remaining cash. Chewing slowly on a piece of taffy, he waved at Peter as he stood vigil in the distance, his stomach flipping as he received a rather enthusiastic wave in return. 

He was only slightly disappointed to see that Peter ran off before he got back to their spot on the beach, thinking that perhaps the boy didn’t want to spend time with him without Sherlock there. Mycroft should have known that he was just as anxious as he was to see how the present might be received, as it became clear that Peter had gone off simply to fetch his favourite brigand.

Sherlock had obviously protested the idea of coming back early, as he put in his appearance casually slung over Peter’s shoulder, a most impressive scowl on his face. He retained the scowl and added a fierce stance as he was lowered to the mat, his arms crossed firmly over his chest as he planted his feet. Sherlock glared hard at the both of them, his grimace only faltering slightly as Mycroft held out the plastic sack.

“For you, brother mine.” 

Sherlock fairly snatched it out of his hand, turning a darkly suspicious look on his older brother before peeking inside cautiously. He froze for a long moment, disbelief ghosting over his features. “This is mine? Truly?”   

Mycroft frowned slightly, drawing a bit closer to Peter’s comforting presence. “I wouldn’t taunt you with such a thing, little one.”

“No.” Sherlock’s voice had gone wispy and uncertain, quavering with unfamiliar emotion. “No, you wouldn’t.” He clenched the bag in his fist, practically knocking Mycroft down as he buried his face in his belly for the briefest of moments. After a mumbled, “Thank you,” Sherlock took off in the direction of the cottage, no doubt eager to show off his new possessions to their parents.

Peter’s eyebrows lifted to the middle of his forehead as he turned to Mycroft, huffing quietly. “Well then.”

Mycroft laughed as he shrugged it off, popping another taffy into his mouth before offering one to Peter. “I assure you, that was really rather effusive on his part.” He dropped his eyes to the mat, shifting the candy around in his mouth with his tongue until he could speak clearly. “We aren’t exactly the most - demonstrative family.”

“Starved for affection, the both of yas.”

“Erm.” Mycroft swallowed his half-chewed taffy in surprise, nearly choking on it. Peter guffawed loudly as he reached over to clap him on the back, giving him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. Mycroft attempted to smile as he wiped at his watering eyes, his heart stilling in his chest at the soft look on the boy’s face. 

It vanished in the blink of an eye, replaced with a mischievous grin that did absolutely nothing to get Mycroft’s motor functions working properly again. With a wink and a startling raspberry blown in his direction, Peter neatly plucked the small bag of sweets from Mycroft’s hand, laughing wildly as he ran off with his stolen confectioneries.

Mycroft threw up his hands in exasperation, beginning to comprehend just why old man Johnson was such a cranky sort. _“Children!”_  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have a bit of getting to know Peter...
> 
> Gonna post this bit fairly quickly, as I'm anxious to get to the good bits in Part III.
> 
> Please do read and comment and maybe spread the word - feeling a bit lost in the crowd at the mo.
> 
> (Yes, I am sad and pathetic. *shrug*)

The next day, they had barely even settled in before Sherlock vaulted off toward his new friends, no doubt to show off and brag a bit as was his wont. At first, Mycroft was only keeping one eye on his book, as the other was occupied with watching his little brother at the tideline, his new hat perched jauntily on his head and happily waving the wooden sword that had come with it. Mycroft told himself that he merely wanted to make sure that his gifts didn’t end up in the water, but he could hardly deny the pride he felt in seeing the joy lighting up Sherlock’s elfin features as he played at being a proper pirate.

And then there was Peter, of course, still shepherding his odd assortment of charges, which now seemed to naturally include his little brother, even if only around the edges. His anxiety lessened somewhat by the knowledge that Sherlock was being well-looked after, Mycroft was able to sink further into the pages of his book. Although Mummy encouraged him to read novels in his leisure time, claiming that they would make him more ‘well-rounded’, Mycroft had always found fact to be far more intriguing than fiction. And so the distant laughter of children faded from existence as he read about the politics of ancient civilisations, getting lost in thoughts of how he might have been able to keep Rome from falling.

“Watcha reading?”

Mycroft jolted and let out a shout that he muffled with the back of his hand, turning flinty eyes on the boy, who shrank back with a gesture of mock-surrender and that damn twinkle in his eye. Mycroft sighed and held up the book, biting his lip as the title was read out loud.

“The Fall of the Roman Republic. Blimey.” Peter flopped down on the mat and leant back on his hands, tipping his head back and shaking out his shaggy hair before squinting at him. “Plutarch. Weren’t he Greek, though?”

Mycroft blinked at him, somewhat astonished, but before he could answer, the boy let out a shout and bolted to his feet. It took Mycroft a moment to realise why he was agitated, and it took him a moment or two more to struggle to his own feet in order to follow him down to the edge of the water.

“Oi, you little rat, you give that back right now!”

“I were only playin’!” A little dark-haired ruffian stared up at the two older boys with innocent defiance, clutching Sherlock’s wooden sword to his chest.

“Dun’t you try and pull that shite on _me_ \- I saw you, Freddy.” Peter gestured curtly, and young Fred sighed heavily as he turned and shoved the toy back in Sherlock’s direction. “Now I know you dun’t like it when your sister takes your things, what makes you think it’s right to take someone else’s?”

Freddy’s face twisted up slightly in thought. “Weren’t really thinking. Just wanted it, and he wouldn’t give, so I took. Yer right, that weren’t good.” Sherlock surveyed the small boy with trepidation as he turned and thrust his podgy hand out in his direction. “I-am-very-sorry-that-I-took-your-toy-is-it-okay-to-still-play-with-you?”

The apology was clearly something Freddy had to issue often, as it was recited almost by rote, but it was also apparently sincerely given. Mycroft fought back on his grin as his little brother solemnly shook the even littler boy’s hand. “Apology accepted.”

“Get on with you, then.” Mycroft’s companion waved his hands, and the small band that had gathered around to watch the odd ceremony broke up with wild whoops and sharp giggles. Peter grinned proudly at Mycroft, an almost blinding thing in the full sun, and he felt his belly swoop with more than just the heat beating down on his head.

Sherlock caught his hand and tugged, bringing Mycroft down to crouch in front of him. “Here.” He handed over his prop weapon. “Can you keep this for me? I don’t think a sword is something that this lot should be playing with anyway, even if it is fake. Did you see him swinging it about all willy-nilly? Almost brained himself!”

Mycroft took it as the boy laughed, reaching out to clap Sherlock on the back. “Bright lad - like a rude ray of sunshine, you are.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but a small grin broke through at Mycroft’s huff of laughter. “And your hat? Would you like me to hold that for you as well?”

Sherlock turned a calculating look on the gang, who were mostly preoccupied with digging in the wet sand for various treasures, and then back to the older boys. “No, I think they’ll leave it alone, now they know he’s watching.”

With that, he ran off to find a stick with which to do his own digging, which was very nearly the same thing as a silly old sword anyway. Mycroft stood and watched for a long moment, startling slightly as there was a tug at the back of his shirt.

“C’mon then. Best get you back under your brolly or you’ll crisp right up, and then I’ll hafta answer to yer mum an’ all.”

Mycroft stumbled after the boy, his brain reeling. They settled themselves back in the shade, with Peter’s sharp eyes trained on the water and Mycroft fiddling with the sword before deliberately setting it aside. “Are any of them yours?” The boy’s eyebrows nearly leapt off his face, and Mycroft shook his head with spluttered laughter. “No, not like that! I meant siblings!”

Grinning easily and stretching out by his side, Peter shook his head. “Not a one.” He waved his hands in exasperation. “They just - find me, somehow. Different ones, too. Every year at summer, they come knocking at my door, and they en’t got nobody else to watch out fer ‘em, so out I go.”  

Mycroft blinked at him, trying to distract himself from the faint dusting of hair trailing down the boy’s lean belly and into his shorts. “Oh my God, but you _are_ Peter Pan, aren’t you?” He gasped with exaggerated delight as the boy’s dark eyes narrowed. “Oh, but that’s perfect. Sherlock can play Hook!”

“And what’ll you play at bein', then? That bastard of a croc?”

“Tick-tock, tick-tock...”

They both burst out into laughter, and Mycroft didn’t even try to hold it in. He just let it out until his belly was shaking from it, his cheeks aching and eyes wet. He wiped them clear to find the boy staring at him in frank admiration, and he felt his face go all red all at once.

He daringly nudged the boy’s leg with his foot. “Go on, Peter. Admit it.”

“Naw. What use is being a Lost Boy, anyhow? I _want_ to grow up.” Peter laced his fingers together under his head, staring up at the canopy of the sun umbrella. “Want to go somewheres else, make somethin’ of meself.”

“Such as?” Mycroft tried to smile as the boy’s eyes went distant and calculating.

“Dunno, really. Me Mam is always telling me that I’d be a good teacher, and yeah, that’s important, but I just...” He shrugged. “Want more, I guess. Got an uncle who’s a copper up north. Beats ‘im down a bit, but he tells me that it makes ‘im feel good, too. I want that - wanna feel like I’m making a difference in the big city.”

“The city really isn’t all that exciting, you know.”

“Sure it is.” Peter looked up at him, his eyes dark and serious. “That’s where you’ll be, in’t it?”

Mycroft swallowed nervously, his fingers fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. “I, um...”

With the tiniest of smiles, the boy swept up the book that Mycroft had dropped earlier, tapping him on the knee with it. “Read to me?”

Eyeing him doubtfully, Mycroft reached out to take it, swallowing hard as his fingertips made contact with Peter’s skin. His smile widened as he nodded encouragingly, and he once again settled back with his hands behind his head, his attitude one of steadfast attention. Mycroft cleared his throat and began to read aloud from a random page, too befuddled to find where he had stopped earlier.

After a few minutes, he relaxed into his new role as storyteller, the waver in his voice dissipating into the quiet bubble surrounding the two boys. Mycroft read, and watched the boy’s chest rising and falling as he stretched out next to him, seemingly content just to be there with him, listening to his voice. A strange sense of rightness filled Mycroft's chest, the overactive butterflies in his stomach fluttering off to bother someone else for once.


	3. Chapter 3

The relative peace lasted a little more than a half-hour, until a certain wee pirate invaded their space. Sherlock huffed as he threw himself down under the shade, tossing his felt hat in Mycroft’s direction.

Peter pushed himself up on one arm, reaching out to ruffle Sherlock’s sweaty curls. “Hey, Sunshine.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, fighting the small smile on one corner of his lips. “How dare you! I am Blackbeard, the scourge of the seven seas!” He squinted threateningly and showed his teeth. _“Arrr...”_

The older boys both chuckled, and Sherlock scowled fiercely before giving in, his high-pitched giggles transitioning to shrieks as he was tickle-attacked on multiple fronts. He finally flopped down on the somewhat sandy mat, his chest heaving as he regained his breath. Mycroft passed over a bottle of water and watched as Sherlock greedily sucked it down, avoiding the boy’s dark gaze.   

“Your brother’s got a nice voice, Sunshine. Was just reading to me.”

“Oh?” Sherlock sat up, his small features scrunching up as he snatched the book out of Mycroft’s unresistant hands. “Oh!” He swiftly rearranged himself so his head was cradled in the vee of his older brother’s crossed legs. “Caesar! I demand Caesar!”

Peter simply glowed as he took them in, enthusiastically joining in with Sherlock’s strident demands. “Caesar!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and put a finger to his lips. “Hush, the both of you.” He waited until they had quieted down before turning to the last life in the volume and beginning to read. He gently combed the fingers of one hand through his little brother’s damp curls, completely ignoring the intense scrutiny from the boy as he did so. With Sherlock there to act as a buffer for the frighteningly comfortable intimacy that had been building between him and Peter, Mycroft was better able to concentrate on the page and the words written upon it.

He paused some time later as there was movement, watching with astonishment as Sherlock reached out to the boy, his small fingers closing around the tanned hand. Peter shifted, turning toward them as Sherlock sat up slowly. “We’re leaving soon. Day after tomorrow.”

The boy turned an inquisitive look on Mycroft, his eyes deep and clear. “Yes. Tomorrow is our last full day. We’ll be leaving the morning after.” He tried to laugh it off softly, shrugging one shoulder nonchalantly. “At least, it’s supposed to be morning. God only knows with our parents - they can drag the simplest tasks out for days, it seems.”

Sherlock solemnly nodded his agreement as the boy sat up, eagerly taking his other hand as it was held out to him. Peter gently swung Sherlock’s arms between their bodies. “Then I imagine you’ll be a bit busy and all tomorrow - packing, yeah?” He glanced out from underneath the sun umbrella, taking in the increasing darkening of the sky. “So - maybe this is goodbye?”

Mycroft gaped as Sherlock threw himself forward, launching himself into the boy’s arms. “Thank you. For letting me play. For...” He glanced aside at his elder brother. “Yeah.”

He wheezed out a breathless giggle as he allowed Peter to give him a good hard hug. “It was my pleasure, Sunshine.” He grinned as he got a withering glare in return for his pleasantry. “Oh, I do beg your pardon - Mister Blackbeard.” He turned to Mycroft, his expression almost inscrutable, except for the melancholy that he knew was reflected on his own face. “I, um... Well. It was nice meeting you too, Mycroft.” He held out his hand, and Mycroft automatically shook it, feeling only numbness in his head and chest. “I best be gettin’ on - I’m sure yer folks will be expecting you for supper soon.” He gave Mycroft’s hand a gentle squeeze before releasing him, and in the next moment he had pushed himself away from the shelter of the umbrella and was walking away, his head held high and shoulders abnormally stiff.

Sherlock slapped Mycroft’s knee rather hard, startling him out of his whirling thoughts. “Say goodbye properly - go give him a hug!”

Mycroft frowned as he shook his head. “Big boys don’t hug each other, little one.” He looked after Peter again, feeling as though his heart was shrivelling in his chest. “He... He wouldn’t appreciate it.”

“Bullshit.” Mycroft gasped in shock as his head whipped back around, subconsciously pulling back from the fiercely disdainful look on his little brother’s face. “You’re an even bigger idiot than I thought.” Sherlock stood and stamped his foot in a fit of pique. “And a coward.” Mycroft blinked at Sherlock as his tiny chin started to quiver in dismay. “You are a _coward_ , Mycroft Holmes, and I am ashamed to be your brother.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows jumped as his mouth dropped open to retort, but Sherlock was already heading back toward the rented cottage, his feet kicking up tiny plumes of sand as he ran away from him. Mycroft’s stiff posture melted as he looked both right and left in utter bewilderment, his eyes seeking but not finding. With an overwhelming sense of loneliness suddenly washing over him, he closed his eyes and wept silent tears, curling in on himself in the middle of the beach mat.

When he had managed to compose himself adequately enough to gather up all the trappings of an afternoon out on the beach, Mycroft tromped back to the cottage by himself. Sherlock shunned him for the rest of the evening, although Mycroft made it relatively easy on him by disappearing into their shared bedroom while his little brother and their parents played various board games out in the sitting room. He felt a distinct pang as he laid out the presents that Sherlock had left behind on the beach earlier on his little brother’s bed, running his fingers along the brim of the hat.

Turning aside, Mycroft occupied his time and his roiling thoughts by attempting to prepare for their imminent departure, packing up his suitcase and leaving out only those few items he would need for the next two days. Settling back in his borrowed bed, he once again tried to curtail certain images from popping up in his mind’s eye as he read. But of course it was quite impossible, and he ended up falling asleep with his book splayed over his face, his dreams full of deep, dark eyes and visions of his pale hands moving over beautifully tanned smooth skin.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of introspection, and perhaps resignation...
> 
> (The next bit is happier, I promise!)
> 
> Please do comment!

Mycroft woke earlier than his usual, which wasn’t all that surprising, given the time that he had fallen asleep. Shuffling carefully over to the window by Sherlock’s side of the room, he twitched the curtain aside and looked into a sky that was threatening rain. For one moment, he entertained the rather fanciful thought that the weather had picked up on his own stormy mood. Silly of him - but then, why not indulge himself in a bit of teenage melodrama?

He dressed quickly and left a note for his parents to curtail any particular worry in case they woke before he returned. Slipping his arms into his windbreaker, he stepped from the cottage and walked toward the pier, taking deliberate care with each of his steps. Although Mycroft definitely understood the appeal to having a bit of a lie-in, especially while on holiday, there was just something about the stillness of the early morning hours that called to him. 

Even with the ocean crashing against the moorings and making the boards tremble underneath his feet, Mycroft felt a calm deep in his bones that helped to settle his inner turmoil. He leant against the railing and watched the whitecaps, lifting his face to the spray that was kicked up by the wind, allowing his brain to drift, focusing on absolutely nothing. 

He wasn’t even sure how long he stood there, the wind buffeting his body as he stared off into the distance, but it became clear as time went on that the town was beginning to wake up around him. Shopkeepers turned on their lights and unlocked their doors, and a few stalwart holiday-makers strolled along the shore, braving the elements with plastic ponchos pulled over their heads. Mycroft watched as one unfortunate individual battled the billowing of his impromptu rain gear and got thoroughly tangled up in it before it was ripped unceremoniously from his body. 

Mycroft surprised himself by letting out a little snort of laughter as the man shouted and tried to chase down the wayward poncho, shaking his head as his glee transitioned into a heady bout of giggles. He turned to head back, still feeling oddly at peace and somehow light in his usually ponderous body. Whatever might happen from this point, it had been a good holiday, and he had gained memories that he could hold close and cherish in his future. 

_ ‘Que sera, sera - whatever will be, will be...’ _

Sherlock clearly did not feel the same, if the withering glare that Mycroft received as he walked into the kitchen was anything to go by. Mummy kissed his pink cheek, tutting over the chilliness of his skin as she suggested a hot shower to warm himself before breakfast. 

“Did you have a nice think on your walk, my dear?” 

Mycroft nodded, his brain still too mellow to formulate a more thoughtful or even coherent response. Thankfully, she seemed to accept this, and simply helped him shrug off his rather damp windbreaker before pushing him in the direction of the single bathroom. The cold didn’t truly hit him until he was peeling his wet clothes off, and then he was suddenly shivering so hard that he could barely work the taps. 

Mycroft was only dimly aware of drying himself off and putting on clean dry clothes, but then he was at table and Mummy was pressing a fully-laden plate in his direction, so he just drew it closer. He picked at the food somewhat listlessly as Sherlock sulked next to him, waiting until their parents were engaged in conversation to turn to him, speaking low.

“You were right, little one. Yesterday, down at the beach. I was - am - a coward.” Mycroft continued to push his beans around his plate. “I should have said goodbye properly, but I - I was...”

“I know.” Sherlock poked him in the thigh with his own utensil, his quicksilver eyes bright but a little sad. “You were scared that he didn’t feel the same, that he would laugh at you. I know.” Mycroft shrugged, finally taking a bite of a sausage. “There’s still time.”

Mycroft shook his head as he put down his fork, folding his hands in his lap. “I wouldn’t even know where to start looking for him, Sherlock. He always found us, remember?” He gestured to the kitchen window, where the rain was now coming down in a steady pour. “I can hardly traipse up and down the town streets knocking on every door I happen across in this weather.” 

Sherlock bit his lip and shook his head somewhat reluctantly, scooting a bit closer in his seat. “Maybe it will let up.”  

Mycroft sighed heavily, leaning down to rest his cheek on his little brother’s head. “Yes - perhaps it will at that.”

Mummy looked at them in surprise, her eyes darting between their faces and down to Mycroft’s virtually untouched plate. She smirked a bit as her youngest scowled a little defiantly, almost daring her to comment as he willingly propped his elder brother up. Instead she just drew their plates toward her, nodding to her husband as he got up and turned toward the kitchen sink.

“Go pick out a game, my loves. Daddy and I will tidy, and then we’ll come join you. Looks like we’ll have to entertain ourselves for a little bit.”

By unspoken if mutual consent, they all tended to steer clear of Cluedo, as that particular game always seemed to infuriate the youngest Holmes. Either that, or he would get so lost in creating a detailed narrative for each character and scenario that the game could get dragged out for absolute hours. On game nights, they tended to warm up with relatively easy and even childish games like Sorry! before transitioning to more intellectually taxing fare such as Scrabble.  

Today, Sherlock seemed to be in a fairly whimsical mood, as he began to unbox Snakes and Ladders, setting Operation aside for their next round. And so the Holmes family whiled away the early afternoon, laughing together as the rain pounded on the cottage roof above their heads. Although when it came time to remove the broken heart from Sam Cavity’s chest, Mycroft’s hand shook so badly that he simply forfeited the game. For once, Sherlock did not crow over his victory.

By the time Operation had come to an end, the weather had calmed down considerably, and they all enjoyed a light tea before Mummy essentially shoved the two boys out of doors with plastic pails and shovels in hand, commanding them to, “Go and see what treasures the storm may have uncovered for you.”

Although both of the brothers had already secured some manner of memento for themselves, both in physical and mental forms, they obediently bundled themselves up and trooped out onto the beach. Mycroft found that he was just as grateful as Sherlock obviously was for the opportunity to stretch his legs a bit, and he contentedly followed wherever his little brother led him.

Shifting through the detritus that had been swept up by sea and storm, Mycroft uncovered a piece of dark brown sea-glass, worn smooth by the elements. He carefully wiped away some of the grit and held it up to the weak sunlight peeking through the clouds. His stomach did a lazy flip as he gazed up at the very hue of Peter’s eyes, so deep and dark, with that same hint of tawny gold that came out when the light hit them just right. 

Mycroft slowly closed his fingers around the rounded shard of glass and held it tight, remembering the tinge of sadness in those eyes the last time they had seen each other - when they had made their unsatisfactory farewells just the day before. Swallowing against the lump in his throat, he quickly tucked the treasure away in his pocket, wanting to keep it safe, wanting to keep it secret.

Sherlock hadn’t paid Mycroft the least bit of attention during his introspection, eagerly digging up stones and shells and bits of wood and tossing nearly all of it into his pail. Mycroft knew that most of it would be declared inferior once it had been rinsed clean and inspected properly, but perhaps the pile of rejects would be of some interest to the next residents of the cottage anyhow. He was pondering over his own bit of driftwood, admiring the elegant curve and the smoothness of the polished bark, when Sherlock abruptly straightened up from where he had been kneeling in the sand.  

Mycroft tilted his head and watched as his little brother ran toward another beach-comber. This boy was blond, and perhaps twelve years of age or so. Mycroft thought he may have seen him in the mob of children that seemed to follow after Peter like a gaggle of goslings, but he wasn’t quite sure. He watched as Sherlock and the boy seemed to have an earnest conversation, blushing slightly as they both turned to look at him. Knowing that no harm was meant by it, but still discomfited by the attention, he turned his eyes back down to the potential mementos littering the sand.

He had uncovered an interesting shell or two by the time Sherlock returned, placing them among his meagre acquisitions. Mycroft hid his grin as his little brother tried to heft his overflowing bucket with a tiny grunt, barely lifting it even with both hands. Without a word, he traded their hauls, smiling faintly as Sherlock reached up to take his free hand without comment. Mycroft played at resisting as he was tugged in the direction of the cottage, his spirits finally beginning to lift as Sherlock giggled unabashedly at his efforts, pulling at him even harder.

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd or brit-picked. Characters not mine, but the situation definitely is!
> 
> If you'd like to get notifications from tumblr, I'm at 'bitemebat.tumblr.com'. Come follow me, and you'll get pretty boys and soft kitties on your dash!


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